Man in the Iron Mask Gen 11: Upon the Midnight
by Blue Fenix
Summary: Thirty years after the mask, the king known as Louis XIV faces the loss of the last link to his past.


Upon the Midnight

Upon the Midnight  
by Blue Fenix

Strange that you should be the last survivor, old man. I know you never wanted it. You would have died gladly, trying to avenge your lost son, in the days before I knew you. I remember once when I caught you weeping, on the anniversary of my father's death. You told me it was how God hated you; He took others, always, and left you alive to witness it. Your wife, your son, your best friend. I remember the despair in your eyes then, the same as that moment under the Louvre when my life was hostage for my brother's. I was glad to be young and healthy and well-guarded; not for my own sake, but for yours. I promised myself I would outlive you. Now it seems that promise is nearly kept. I thank God for that mercy. If each of your losses hurt you, as the prospect of losing you now hurts me, then I wonder how you survived.

A king's daily routine is nearly as constrained as a prisoner's; still, I can sit with you a little every morning. The days when the attending monks (like Aramis' Jesuits) can help you to a chair or in warm weather, into the garden. Days when you stay in bed. I hold your hand, fragile bone under papery skin, and wait for you to speak to me. "Your majesty" is a good sign, herald of a clear-eyed conversation. "Philippe" is best. Other days, rare but ominous, you give me my father's name or your son's or simply watch, puzzled, as a stranger greets you. I dread those days. So far you have always returned to yourself, fading but with the same sharp mind and loving heart that saved me so many years ago. But each time you whisper my name, my birth name, I fear it might be the last. You and I are the only ones left who remember the terrified boy you made into a king. When you forget him, Philippe will be dead indeed.

We lost Porthos first. I believe he died happy. Certainly he died wealthy, and immensely fat, from the royal largesse he so deserved. I heard the rumors, like everyone else, that more than one young woman had been present when his great heart shattered. I hope they were true. His magnificent love of life and life's pleasures deserved such an exit. 

Aramis lasted much longer. I regret the distance between us, especially in his last few years. I always respected him; he taught me more about the business of ruling than anyone. But that very knowledge, and his justifiable pride, made it hard for him to let go as I learned my trade. There can only be one king; even my brother knew that. I avoided Louis' excesses in taking full control, but I did take it. I think Aramis believed, when I refused to make him a Cardinal, that it was my revenge for the mask. Perhaps my motives weren't pure. Still he was loyal. He absorbed what he saw as an insult, for my sake and my father's memory and not to make you choose between us. For France. He always thought of France, always saw things on the grand scale. I learned that from him. Always calculating, yet I remember him best the day he forgot all caution and charged at death and glory with us. I think that is how he would want to be remembered. He was a happier man as a Musketeer than he ever was as a politician.

I even mourn my brother, more than I ever expected to. Persuading him -- almost -- to penitence for his sins was Aramis' great victory as a man of God. We could never promise him freedom, or give it. Pretenders with only slight resemblances to the real king have endangered nations before. He might have taken his role back even five or ten years later, if he'd had the chance. But we were able to lighten the terms of his imprisonment, year by year. 

I was relieved when we finally dispensed with the mask. I think even you were happier, though you argued against it as you opposed anything that might put me in the slightest personal danger. You have a great talent for hatred, but you loved me and my father too well to be comfortable torturing someone so close to both of us. In the last ten years of his life my brother and I even wrote to each other, Aramis carrying the letters back and forth. In an odd way, he was my advisor. Who else understood the problems of being king so well? Who else could I confide in, without fear that my words would have any consequence in the court or the world? 

Prison shortened his life. The news of Mother's death, the only person who loved him in spite of his crimes, shortened it still more. But he didn't die entirely unmourned, or entirely alone, or locked in the mask. He too was one of my teachers. The abuse of power has tempted me too, more often and more deeply than I care to admit. Sometimes my brother's bad example has been the only thing that kept me on the honorable path. 

I say little of this to you, even on the mornings when your eyes have all their old fire. You know my mind without me explaining myself, as you have always known me. I let you choose our topics of conversation. More and more often you talk about my father. I knew him less than an hour when we were both living; everything else I have of him is through you. I realized this morning that you have mourned D'Artagnan now almost as many years as you knew him. If the world were ordinary, if my mother had been someone else we might have been almost one family. Your lost son and I would be age-mates, no doubt friends and fellow Musketeers just as the two of you were. My father might still be alive, just now letting age persuade him to retire his captaincy, and we two -- or three -- would have a friendly rivalry over who should succeed him. The daydream pleases me. Being king has had its rewards: a marriage of state, an heir, three growing grandsons, children by less formal liaisons. The work is absorbing. I have tried to rule wisely; I think I often succeeded. I would not change the choices I made, when I was young and you were my only friends. But I was right then, too, in describing the palace as a richer sort of prison. You stayed by me in that prison; before too long, I will be alone.

I sit beside your bed, holding both your hands. They are always cold now, no matter how heavy the curtains at your window or how brightly the servants build the fire. You used to tease me -- not without reason -- that a building as expensive as Versailles should have at least one or two rooms without drafts. But this one is warm enough for tropical plants, and still you shiver. No wonder. I know how much of the shape under the blanket is warm clothing, padding your bones, and how little is you. Simple time, without any dramatic bouts of illness, has dried you almost to a skeleton. They keep you propped half upright in bed on a great ramp of pillows, to breathe more easily. You stir when I rest a hand on your forehead. Your face is warm, perhaps too much so. "Athos, I'm going to send you the court doctors."

"They're fools." You turn your head to one side. "Send for them when I feel better, they can cure that easily enough."

I don't believe you will ever feel better. Part of me is twenty-two again, lonely and terrified. "They can at least look at you."

Your hand squeezes mine; there's no strength in it. "My liege. Philippe. Let me be. Your doctor has nothing I want."

I can't see properly. I wipe at my eyes. "If you're in any pain ..."

"I'm only tired." You try to wet your lips. There's watered wine beside the bed; I take the cup and help you drink as you once helped me. You smile a little. "Can you wait with me? I won't keep you." 

I can't control myself then. I lay my forehead on the bed and cry. I am what you made me, the most powerful man in the Christian world. Armies march at my word, popes tread cautiously. I am as helpless as the child I was, scarred and stinking from prison. None of my power, nothing I have achieved will buy you more life. Your gnarled hands rest on my head like a father's benediction. "He would be so very proud of you. We are all proud." 

I look up wildly, almost expecting ghosts in the darker corners of the room. An escort of honor ... I wonder if you can see them, and I dare not ask. "Athos. Do you want me to send you a confessor?"

"God will have to take me as He finds me. If there's anything to be said in my favor, Aramis will have pleaded my case long ago. If any of it is true ... Aramis was always sure. As you are sure. It must be a great comfort." Your hand rests in mine again. "You can pray for me, if you like."

I rub my eyes with my other hand. "I have not waited for your permission."

"Good." You move your eyes, focusing across the room. "I have something for you. The little pewter box, on the table."

I don't want to let go of your hand. Superstitious dread, that the contact of skin on skin is the only thing delaying you. But I was your student before I was your king, and I have yet to disobey you. Five steps across the room and back. You gesture, and I open the box. Two rings, their silver only a little brighter than the gray metal of the box. I recognize the larger one, thin and misshapen from wear. You wore it on your little finger every day, until time began to twist your hands. The smaller ring is undamaged, a plain circle marked all the way around with a faint pattern of flowers. "It was her wedding band. Raoul's mother. I kept it for him and his future bride, but ... it never happened." Tears in your eyes, the old wound still hurting after a generation. Your fingers close around mine on the outside of the box. "It's not much, when even the king's furniture is cast silver."

I kiss your hands. "What you value is priceless to me."

"I loved her very much. As much as your parents ... I wish you could have married for love, Philippe. We did you wrong, there."

"It was necessary. I made the decision as much as anyone." The marriage-treaty with Spain was a great success; the marriage ... but I was never lonely. Fidelity is a difficult virtue for kings. "Perhaps I can still marry for love. No one could complain about a shortage of heirs to the throne." 

You smile. "Even Porthos would be duly impressed." I start to set the box on the table by your bed. "Take them now. You are my family."

I can't refuse. I put the little box in my pocket. "You are my father."

"No. But I cared for him, more than I can say." You pause as if gathering your energy. "I've been very fortunate, in my life."

Your courage shames me. I try not to weep again; time for that later. "You lost so many people, Athos."

"At least I loved them for a while, first. That's all that matters. Since I was very young, since before you were born, I've never been bereft. When I lost my wife, I still had my son. When I lost Raoul, I still had my friends. And you." The affection in your eyes tears at my heart. 

All my years on the throne, I've brought you my troubles. Even if you only offered a word or two, even if you only listened, I valued you more than the whole court full of flatterers. It's almost insolence, to beg your help on one last problem. I should bear my pain as well as you bear yours, but I can't help myself. "After you're gone ... I'll only have illusions. Masks. No one at court knows me -- they think they know King Louis."

"You are wrong, your majesty." You squeeze my hands. Sick and fragile, you still have strength to give me. "The name is Louis' -- but it's you they've followed these many years. Your good decisions keeping them safe and prosperous. Your achievements, and your love, are not less valuable because they are covered by a false name." Your voice drops, to the gentle tone I trusted from the first. "Did I lie to you, because I served you as Athos?"

"Never." I knew your real name once. I found it among Richlieu's old dossiers, along with Aramis' and Porthos'. Blatant _noms de guerre,_ to anyone less naïve than I had been. Comte ... I don't care. My vision is blurring again. "Please don't leave me."

"What was the first thing we taught you? Never give an order you know will be disobeyed. You don't need me, Philippe. You have your own life now. It will hurt, but you will recover."

I sit beside you on the bed and hold you like a child. I never had this; I was full grown when you began watching over me. But I have held my own children sometimes, deeply offending the royal nurses. You seem to weigh no more than a twelve-year-old. Your head rests on my shoulder. "I'll find a better doctor. When the spring comes you'll feel like eating more. You never let anything stop you in your life. This is no different. Athos ..." 

So cold. I thought I could give you some of my body heat by hugging you; instead I feel as chilled as you are. Your lips are blue as if from cold, though the room is stifling. They move, shaping an almost silent exhalation into a word. _D'Artagnan_. I know you mean both of us. Your beloved friend, and his secret son who never dared use the name. I find a little of his courage, and look into your eyes. I would not have you feel alone.

I am alone. Strangely, I feel no fear at all. You told me once that serious wounds hurt less than minor ones; the body, shocked too much, refuses to register pain. I feel that empty clarity now. I arrange the covers, fold your hands over them. Dignity; you would always have things proper and orderly, even when we were rebels. Your eyelids close when I touch them. I kiss you on the forehead. I can do no more. The machinery of court etiquette and custom, which I helped build, is stronger than I am. They'll bring in a priest, in spite of what you wanted. They'll make me leave -- the King cannot sleep under the same roof as a dead body. I can command a military funeral, let the Musketeers take care of their own. I can give you the spot by my father's grave that has waited for you these decades. The others are there too. You'll be together, as on the day you stood like a wall between me and my brother's troops. I have nothing else to offer.

I wish hard for a mystic's vision, some glimpse of a ghostly reunion to let me know you arrived safely. Nothing. I hold the little box in my coat pocket. The last of your countless gifts. My whole life, France itself, is your gift to me; I have no way to repay you except by taking care of it. I sink back into the chair by the bed. The cold part of my brain notes the time. Long past the beginning of the ministers' meeting. They'll grumble, and then they'll worry. Let them. I owe them my future, but I can take a few minutes for myself and an old friend. 

[the_blue_fenix@yahoo.com][1]

   [1]: mailto:the_blue_fenix@yahoo.com



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